


as the leaves turned to gold

by Anonymous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen Live, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Friendship, Gen, POV Outsider, technically a sequel but stands alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:14:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22536859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Life at Summerhall goes on and Brienne observes Rhaenys.
Relationships: Brienne of Tarth & Rhaenys Targaryen
Comments: 20
Kudos: 49
Collections: Anonymous





	as the leaves turned to gold

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after _[all great and precious things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21868648)_.

No one knew exactly what had happened to King Aerys II.

There had been no unusual marks upon his body, save for little cuts down his arms from the Iron Throne, and no evidence of foul play, though even that was up for debate – after all, there had been a war going on, few people had been present within the Red Keep to see the corpse, there had been plenty of time for a swap to have been made, and the body had been cremated. All that was known for certain was that the king had been hale one day then dead the next, leaving his good-daughter at the head of House Targaryen while the crown prince was off at war.

There had been whispers that it had been that good-daughter, the Dornish Princess Elia, sister of the Red Viper, that had killed him, poisoning his food or wine or even using some form of dark magic. After all, it had been she that had sent terms to Lord Arryn of the Vale, just as her husband and Robert Baratheon had met upon the Trident. Those whispers were never spoken in King’s Landing, and it wasn’t hard to guess why – bards told stories of Rhaegar’s grief for his Princess Elia. The king that had been the once beloved crown prince had regained some of the love he’d lost only through the strength of that grief, the weight of his regret, and according to most, the war and deaths had hardened him into someone almost unrecognizable. Nobody wanted to be the one to bring up that bloody history, not where he could hear it.

Brienne didn’t often think about those rumours. There had been no evidence one way or the other, after all, and it hardly mattered now anyway – Elia herself was long dead, and the world had breathed a sigh of relief when mad, cruel Aerys’s death had been announced. But now, at Summerhall, attending Princess Rhaenys and her aunt Daenerys, she couldn’t help but consider them again.

Rumour also had it that Elia Martell had looked just like her daughter, if a little thinner and more prone to bouts of illness. If that was true, Brienne found it difficult to believe. She could hardly imagine _Rhaenys_ killing someone – not Rhaenys of the sunny smiles and sweet consideration for everyone around her.

Brienne would have ordinarily felt out of place at Summerhall. The princess’s other companions were pretty and charming, some prone to whispers and fits of giggles that Brienne couldn’t help but think were aimed at her and others with glinting eyes and knowing smirks that made Brienne avert her gaze, heartrate rising. The princess herself was lovely to look upon, and people everywhere understood her to be the closest thing the realm had to a queen, with both the king’s mother and wife gone. Margaery’s brother Garlan had once called her the king’s ear, for even the Hand of the King had more difficulty meeting with Rhaegar than Rhaenys. It should have been intimidating, and it would have been – but for Rhaenys.

Rhaenys Targaryen’s household was a warm one. The princess was hospitable and kind, carefully listening to everything her ladies had to say and arranging activities that would amuse them, joining in on jests while never saying anything mean or cruel. She’d just smiled indulgently at Garlan’s remark about the king and japed that her brother, the crown prince, listened to her even more. She was fond of her bastard cousin, welcoming her into her hall as she would any trueborn daughter. Sarella Sand’s brief presence at Summerhall had startled most of Rhaenys’s companions, but the stories Rhaenys had encouraged her to share were so riveting that Margaery hadn’t been able tear her eyes away from her, and when the time had come for her to leave, Rhaenys hadn’t been the only one to embrace her. Most astoundingly of all, Rhaenys seemed to favour Brienne’s company. She’d sit by her during meals and engage her in conversation, ride next to her on their day trips and ask her opinion on the news of the day, invite her to her solar so they could break their fast together, and somehow, over time, Brienne had stopped avoiding her gaze throughout it all, to the point where she could sometimes even speak something that wasn’t an answer to a direct question.

“Thank you so much for your help,” Rhaenys said now. She gestured at the small table beside the desk, covered with bottles and small snacks. “Would you like some water? Wine?”

“Water, please.”

Rhaenys smiled and poured them both a cup. Brienne took hers with a nod of gratitude, turning her attention to the parchment and quill before her. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

“To my dear brother,” Rhaenys dictated and waited patiently for Brienne to catch up. “I will be hosting a weeklong fair at Summerhall in two moons, with craftspeople and artisans from all over the Seven Kingdoms. I would be pleased if you could attend. I have many people I would like for you to meet. With love always.”

When Brienne finished, Rhaenys took the quill and signed her name in elegant script. It was a short message, more a note than a true letter. Brienne had to wonder why Rhaenys had asked her to transcribe it at all.

“I like to have my ladies assist me with my correspondence,” Rhaenys said, as if she’d read Brienne’s mind. “But only if I know exactly what I want to say without needing to first write it. I find it’s a good excuse to speak to you all individually.”

“Individually…have I displeased you in some way, my lady?”

Rhaenys waved a hand dismissively. “Not at all. I just wanted to check if there were anyone you’d like me to not invite.”

“My lady?”

“To the fair. Anyone you absolutely despise? Anyone that’s made you uncomfortable somehow? It doesn’t matter who or when. Just give me a name and I’ll make sure they’re not here.”

She meant it, Brienne realized. Rhaenys’s eyes were dead serious and fixed on her own, waiting for a response.

“I…”

It had been the son of the Hand’s cousin that had thrust a rose at her as she stammered, and the sharp spike of humiliation had been almost enough to overpower the terror tying her tongue. And against all odds, Summerhall was safe – more than safe. Somehow, with Rhaenys and all the ladies from around Westeros, with the activities they all did together, the languid evenings of conversation and songs, it had come to feel almost like home. She’d always been shy, but she hadn’t felt so much as a flicker of unease when around Rhaenys since they’d first met. Now, as she thought about her former betrothed entering this sacred space and catching sight of her, all gleaming eyes and sneers and peals of mocking laugher, thought about the spread of stories through the castle and pitying expressions on the faces of ladies she liked and admired, her stomach turned.

But he was the son of the Hand’s cousin.

Rhaenys meant it. So Brienne couldn’t ask. She wasn’t going to risk making Rhaenys’s life harder for the sake of avoiding a few days discomfort. Ser Ronnet might not even come, and if he did, Brienne could handle it.

“No, princess,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

Rhaenys smiled.

“I suppose everyone will be on their best behaviour anyway,” she mused, rolling up the scrap of parchment and sealing it shut, hands lingering on it rather than setting it back down. “If Aegon will be there. My brother has always made it clear that he expects decency and doesn’t tolerate poor conduct.”

“What’s he like?” Brienne asked. “Prince Aegon?”

Rhaenys tilted her head as she considered it. Her silence stretched for long enough that Brienne started to suspect she wouldn’t get an answer.

“You’ll like him,” she said finally. “Most everyone does.”

She ran her tongue over her lips, moistening them. Brienne stared. She had thought it just a casual question, but Rhaenys’s eyes had gone distant, brow furrowing a little, the way her face sometimes shifted when she was puzzling over a problem, during the silences between conversations.

“He looks like our father,” the princess continued. “But they’re not much alike in character, in truth. Father’s view of the world often stems from what he’s read. Aegon prefers to see it for himself. He took a trip when he came of age…a royal progress throughout the Seven Kingdoms, yes, but after he finished that, he crossed the Narrow Sea to see the rest of the world. He befriended a young man, a blacksmith’s son, effectively in exile for years. He knighted him and brought him home, insisted Father pardon him for any crimes committed. And now Duck is one of his closest friends.”

Rhaenys’s hands were still moving, running back and forth along the tiny roll of parchment, thumb tracing circles around the wax of her seal. Brienne couldn’t take her eyes off them. They were far more delicate looking than Brienne’s own hands, yet she wouldn’t have called them small. Rhaenys’s fingers were long and elegant, the fingers of a harpist, and they twisted around her letter, intertwining with each other so tightly that her knuckles turned white while keeping the pressure such that the parchment didn’t crumple.

“I don’t see him often anymore, not since he claimed his seat at Dragonstone and I came here, but he’s…he’s a good brother,” Rhaenys concluded. She finally set the letter back down on the desk. “He’ll be a wonderful king.”

She leaned back against her chair and sighed contentedly, grabbing a plate from the side table. “Would you like anything to eat? More water?”

Brienne hadn’t even touched the first cup. She hastily gulped some down and accepted a cube of cheese from the proffered plate. Rhaenys, apparently not in any rush for Brienne to leave, took a handful of almonds for herself.

“So,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I’ve told you about my brother, so I think it’s your turn. Tell me all about Tarth, my lady.”

* * *

“Did you hear?” Desmera said, leaning forward. “Ser Daemon might be coming back for the fair. Prince Doran is looking for a new armourer, and so Daemon has been looking in the Boneway for him.”

Brienne bit her lip and tried not to blush. Ser Daemon, who had smiled at her and danced with her and listened carefully to what she had to say without looking away, as if what she had to say mattered, as if the sight of her face didn’t repulse him, who had taken her seriously when he saw her training instead of laughing. Perhaps he’d train with her again if he returned?

“I heard he was in love with someone he couldn’t marry,” Desmera continued. Margaery pressed her clasped hands against her chest.

“Oh, how romantic.”

Eleanor Mooton sighed wistfully. “If only _I_ could marry him, he’s so handsome.”

It was true. Daemon’s smile was slow to cross his face, but real, lighting up his eyes, and it had sent a thrill through Brienne whenever she said something to draw it out. And when they’d trained together…he’d moved with liquid grace, his hands gentle as they’d corrected her stance, and for a moment, he’d been almost too beautiful to look at. As she’d watched him ride off, all she’d been able to think of was how he was bastard born, a knight with no lands of his own. She was heir to Evenfall. She could take him home, to Tarth, and make him a lord, and bask forever in the glow of that smile…but he was bastard born.

She’d disappointed her father enough already.

Margaery glanced at Daenerys, eyes gleaming. “Surely you know who he was in love with? Or if that’s true at all?”

Daenerys smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I’ve never even heard him say much. Maybe we can find out when he comes back!”

The conversation moved on, to the crown prince who Daenerys promised was excellent company, to the next ride she wanted to take them on, to what they should all do for Rhaenys’s nameday in a few moons. Daenerys changed the topic midsentence once Rhaenys entered the room, away from Rhaenys’s favourite foods and songs and toward how Rhaenys had often taken her to wander the markets in King’s Landing for hours and speak with the vendors, without missing a beat. Rhaenys smiled and ruffled Daenerys’s hair, sitting down beside her aunt with casual grace.

“I thought you had done that here not long ago?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. She cast a look at everyone else in the room. “Didn’t you go with Lady Ysilla just last week?”

“It’s no fun without you,” Daenerys pouted. Rhaenys laughed.

“We’ll go soon,” she promised. “All of us. We must find all the best local artisans soon.”

Daenerys smiled brightly. She and her niece were a study in contrasts, sitting next to each other as they were, she fair and carefree, Rhaenys dark and restrained, and it grew even more pronounced as she rested her head against Rhaenys’s shoulder. “I’ll hold you to it.”

* * *

Margaery was small but strong, and passionate for a number of outdoor activities, from riding to hawking to sailing. From the way she exclaimed in delight at a bowyer’s goods, lifted a bow and tugged at the string to assess its weight, and accepted a handful of arrows to test how well it shot, it seemed that archery could be added to that list as well. From how those arrows clustered together around the centre of the target, it seemed more than a passion – a real talent.

“Well shot,” Brienne said. Margaery smiled brightly.

“Sarella gave me some tips before she left,” she explained, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “Do you think she’ll come back sometime soon?”

“Rhaenys said she has business in Oldtown,” Brienne said. “So I doubt it.”

Margaery sighed. “What a pity.”

The bowyer ran to retrieve Margaery’s arrows from the target. When he returned, Margaery held out a handful of coins and the bow. “I’ll take it. Your work is _marvelous,_ where are you from?”

“Here and there, my lady,” the man said, busying himself with wrapping Margaery’s purchase in paper. “Been living near Storm’s End for the past four years. Before that, Gulltown for a while, Lannisport for longer. Even spent some time in Dorne. But most of my life was in Oldtown. Where I was born, you know.”

“Oh, you’re a Reacher!” Margaery exclaimed. “Have you any interest in returning? I’m sure my father would love to have a man of your talents at hand at Highgarden.”

The man shook his head, a wide smile stretching his mouth and crinkling his eyes. “Thank you, my lady. But next, I’ll be going to Dragonstone. The prince liked my work, too, invited me to go back with him. And I can’t say I’ve ever been there before.”

Margaery sighed. “Oh, well. Lucky Prince Aegon.”

The man leaned in closer. “The princess brought him to meet me herself. She told us she’d heard about me from Lord Grafton and was delighted when she heard I was coming.”

“I’m sure she was,” Margaery agreed. “Well, if you ever get bored of Dragonstone – I’ve heard it’s dreadfully dreary – you can always go to Highgarden then. I promise you, _we_ know how to enjoy ourselves.”

The man laughed and held up the wrapped bow. “Will you be taking this now, my lady, or would you like me to deliver it to the castle?”

“The latter, if you would,” Margaery said, smile returning. “Thank you.”

She looped her arm through Brienne’s and led her through the rows of stalls. “Come, Brienne, I’ve been looking for a present for my brother’s wife…”

* * *

They found Rhaenys and her brother sitting atop a sundrenched blanket, each with a cup in hand and fruit tart balanced on a knee. Aegon kept reaching out to swipe the blackberries from Rhaenys’s tart. She didn’t seem to notice.

A small crowd had gathered of people wanting to speak to the prince and princess, some of whom Brienne recognized and some she didn’t. When Rhaenys caught sight of her ladies in the crowd, she flashed them a brief smile over the shoulder of the knight kneeling before her before bidding the knight to rise.

“Won’t you join us?” she asked them, once they were the ones dipping into curtseys before her. “Come, it won’t be long until the feast, do sit down.”

Brienne and Margaery did as she bid them.

“So, have the two of you been enjoying the fair so far?”

As they conversed, it began to dawn on Brienne that Rhaenys might have had an ulterior motive – fewer people came up to her and her brother, when they saw Brienne and Margaery sitting there beside them. As Rhaenys had said, it was almost time for the feast. Sitting with two of her ladies…it was a polite signal that she was otherwise occupied, one that freed her to move as she needed. It was very Rhaenys, and even though Brienne had always been averse to people saying things without saying them, always wished more of them would just say what they meant, it was _Rhaenys,_ who had won her people’s love through kindness, rather than bluntness; decency and courtesy, rather than scheming calculation. Brienne could hardly begrudge her for that. Especially not when she listened to everything Brienne said as if it were the most important thing in the world and her smile could rival the sun.

When the crowd was entirely gone, Aegon popped another blackberry into his mouth, finished his tart in two bites, and held up a pitcher. “Would either of you like some cider?”

Brienne hadn’t known what to expect when the Prince of Dragonstone had confirmed he would visit, but when he’d arrived, it had immediately become clear that Rhaenys had spoken true – her brother looked as much like their father as Rhaenys supposedly resembled their mother, all silvery gold hair and indigo eyes, and the way he’d immediately moved to embrace his sister after dismounting had made it clear that he loved her just as much as she loved him. Now, he poured Brienne and Margaery cider, expression open and friendly, and Brienne relaxed, more at ease than she could ever remember being around a stranger. Aegon may have been the heir to the Iron Throne, may have had the sort of aching beauty that never failed to make Brienne nervous, but he was also Rhaenys’s brother, and this was Summerhall.

This was safe. This was all but home.

Margaery smiled at the crown prince. “I heard you’ve snared the services of an new bowyer, my prince. Congratulations. His work is quite wonderful.”

Aegon grinned back. “As with many of the craftsmen here. I bought a beautifully illustrated copy of _The Origins of the Iron Bank and Braavos_ from a scribe. I had it sent to my chambers, but I’ll have to show it to you later.”

While they conversed, Brienne’s attention landed back on Rhaenys. Now that the crowd had dispersed, the princess had let her impeccable posture slip just a little, tilting her head back in a way that drew the eye to the long line of her throat, the way her gown draped around her in gauzy layers.

It was an unusual choice of attire, more relaxed than the conservative style Rhaenys favoured and Desmera had taken to emulating. The cut and neckline were still demure, but the back of it dipped lower, the material lighter than her usual wool, velvet, and heavy silks. It suited her – as she closed her eyes, basking in the sunlight like a cat, she looked utterly at ease, like she should forever sit under the golden glow. Aegon beside her complemented her even more than Daenerys usually did – the fair to her dark, the large to her small, and, at that moment, the vibrant to her leisurely.

They remained like that, the four of them, until afternoon turned into evening and the sun began to set over the horizon, streaks of red and orange and pink across a background of cobalt, and bright stars beginning to twinkle into visibility. Then, as the merchants began to pack away their wares and servants began to set up tables for the guests that wouldn’t fit into the hall, Rhaenys and Aegon rose. They hadn’t exchanged a word aloud, but they moved almost in unison, and Brienne and Margaery had to scramble to their feet so as to not be caught seated while royalty stood. In a rare departure from grace, Margaery stumbled. Brienne steadied her.

“We should all change,” Rhaenys said quietly once they were all on their feet. “The feast will begin in about an hour. I’ll see you all then.”

At their nods of affirmation, the princess leaned up onto her toes to press a quick kiss to each of their cheeks, and swept back to the castle ahead of them alone.

* * *

There was no time for a proper bath, but Brienne washed her hands and face in the basin, combed her hair, and crossed the room to the wardrobe for the dress she had intended to wear.

She hesitated.

Desmera had said Ser Daemon might be attending…she hadn’t seen him among the vendors, so she’d assumed that if he were coming at all, it would be later in the week, but perhaps he arrived in time for the evening meal? And if that were the case…would it really be so bad, to put on a gown with an embroidered bodice, rather than something plain? Would it really be so bad to wear richer fabrics than wool, just on occasion?

 _Foolishness,_ she told herself. No dress could ever disguise the breadth of her shoulders or the freckled, horsey ugliness of her face. All it could do was make people laugh. And even though Daemon Sand wasn’t one for that, he would still never look at her twice, not when the hall was filled with maids prettier than she could ever be and he already loved a woman he couldn’t have. And even if he _did,_ it could never amount to anything. She _knew_ that.

But her heart still skipped a beat whenever she thought his name; her stomach still lurched when someone else commented on his handsomeness; her eyes still lingered on the clothing that filled the wardrobe, something rather like longing churning inside her.

She pulled out the plain gown with more force than necessary, dressed, and left for the feast.

She found Rhaenys standing at the end of a corridor near the Great Hall. It was rather dark, but Rhaenys stood before a row of windows, bathed in enough light that Brienne could see how she’d pulled her hair into a thick braid that fell across one shoulder and changed into a black gown with flowing sleeves that gathered at her wrists, cut straight across just beneath the large ruby that now gleamed at the hollow of her throat. One of the windows was open, letting in a cool breeze that stirred loose strands of her hair around her face and swirled her skirts around her legs. The princess’s chin was tilted up, her bearing as regal as any queen and her smile upon catching Brienne’s eye as warm as ever.

“Brienne,” she said in greeting. “I like your gown. The blue becomes you.”

Brienne flushed. The gown for which she’d exchanged the riding clothes she’d worn to the fair was one she wore quite often. The last time she’d donned it had been Daenerys’s nameday feast. It wasn’t a pretty dress, especially in comparison to Rhaenys’s. That was by design, of course – she’d realized a long time ago that it was better to stick to dark colours and hope to blend into the background – but that didn’t make it any more worth commenting on. Still, Rhaenys said it like she meant it, no artifice in her eyes, and Brienne mumbled her thanks.

“You can go ahead, if you like,” Rhaenys told her. “Most of the others are already inside. I just thought…”

She gestured at the open window. “Some air seemed like it would be nice, first. But don’t let me stop you from getting to the feast.”

Brienne hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want…?”

Rhaenys smiled again. “Worry not, my friend. Go and enjoy yourself, I’ll be along soon.”

It was a suggestion with the air of a command, and Rhaenys was the Princess of Summerhall. Brienne obeyed, and walked down the corridor. But before she turned the corner to head into the hall, she glanced back over to Rhaenys only to freeze at the other woman’s expression.

She wasn’t smiling anymore.

Rhaenys’s face had fallen, brow furrowing to the point where her startling beauty had faded into the background, elegant fingers twisting together before her, eyes sharpening into something intense and almost dangerous. Brienne had seen her don similar expressions before, just brief flickers of it across her face, when glancing over letters from King’s Landing, or perusing a book on economic policy during the reign of the second King Daeron. It wasn’t always the same, not quite, but her brow furrowed that same way.

It was _worry,_ Brienne realized, breath catching. Rhaenys was _scared._

What could she possibly have to be afraid of? She was the king’s favoured child and held her own seat; her brother sought her opinion regularly; everyone at Summerhall seemed to adore her. What cause could she have to look like a cornered animal on a day as beautiful as this one, when everyone around her was happy and soon to feast on delicacies until their bellies were full and heads sleepy, when she herself had so recently looked perfectly content?

Brienne didn’t have much time to contemplate the answer – once Rhaenys noticed Brienne’s eyes on her, her odd expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She offered Brienne a reassuring smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes, and as the starlight glimmered against her dark hair and the moon washed half her face so pale that the other side seemed an even darker olive than usual, all Brienne could think of was the woman that should have been Rhaegar’s queen.

Rhaenys looked like her mother had looked. Brienne had never seen the late Princess Elia, but that was the one thing everyone seemed to agree upon, both the people that wondered aloud if Elia had killed a king and those that called it madness because Elia couldn’t have harmed a fly. But what did that mean? When people said that Rhaenys looked like her mother, did they mean her smile? Her beautiful face and slender body and warm, gentle sweetness? Or did they mean her graceful fingers, sharp jaw, and hungry eyes, wary and watching, the even stare when she wanted an answer and the conviction in her voice when she made a promise? The Rhaenys of fairs and sunlit afternoons and easy days at the end of summer spent riding, hawking, reading, or the Rhaenys of shadowed corners in the breaths between when she thought nobody could see her?

The castle was warm, but Brienne shivered.

When she finally turned the corner and entered the hall, she took a seat beside Margaery and accepted a cup of wine. She drank, long and deep, and cast a look around the room. A fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth and warm golden light lit up every face; the free flowing wine, laughter, and chatter warmed just as much. Brienne had half-hoped to see Ser Daemon, but even if he had been there, she wasn’t sure she would have noticed, now – all she could see was Rhaenys’s eyes, gleaming in the night.

 _Predator’s eyes,_ Brienne thought, and when Rhaenys entered the hall, all smiles once more, and took her seat at the head of their table, she had to wonder if it were not with a predator’s mannerisms, too.

Had Rhaenys always moved with that graceful intent? Had she always been so leanly poised, even when her slenderness made her seem so delicate? Had she always so easily shifted from expressions of warm openness to those fierce resolve and back again?

Brienne knew not.

Rhaenys was smiling now, and Brienne was relieved to see it – perhaps the flare of fear in her eyes had been just that, a moment of panic. Still, she wondered.

She thought back to the princess lounging in the sunlight, gentle and sweet and clever enough to know how to dissuade everyone from crowding around her once she’d grown tired without saying a word, to how her brow furrowed whenever she puzzled over a problem, to how intently she’d listened when asking Brienne about ship traffic near Tarth, to those unsettling eyes. Beautiful Rhaenys, the blood of the dragon and a daughter of the spear.

Were those eyes the Targaryen in her? Or were they something else she’d inherited from her mother’s family?

 _No,_ Brienne told herself. It didn’t matter. Not when it was Rhaenys. Rhaenys would have barred noblemen from her hall for no reason other than Brienne’s request and Brienne’s comfort. She had thrown herself into learning about fishing when fishermen complained to her brother about too much ship traffic. She spoke with serving girls and tradesmen and the noblest of lords with the same interest and ease. Rhaenys was _good._

People said the same about Elia. If she had been anything like her daughter…any murder she would have been capable of would have been to protect herself. And if those rumours were true…surely it was a good thing for Rhaenys to have inherited her mother’s hungry, dangerous eyes? If Rhaenys was scared, Brienne couldn’t believe that it was without reason, and if she could protect herself, how could that be anything _but_ good?

But it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter because Brienne trusted her.

If Rhaenys could protect herself, that was good, and if she couldn’t, Brienne would have to do it for her, whether it be from assassins or courtiers or conversations she didn’t want to have. Summerhall was safe because of Rhaenys; Brienne would be damned if it didn’t feel safe for Rhaenys herself.

So at last, she relaxed and drained her cup, murmured her thanks when it was refilled and glanced down the table once more. Rhaenys sat next to her brother, nodding along as Aegon, loud enough for the whole table to hear, told a story about when he’d last been in Essos, and occasionally interjecting between bites of her meal. Daenerys, on Rhaenys’s other side, murmured something into Rhaenys’s ear, looking pleased when the older princess laughed. Brienne had to smile. She picked up her spoon and began to eat.

Rhaenys was safe here, safe and beloved, surrounded by people that would protect their princess with their lives. And soon enough, they’d be able to make her believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> The people gossiping about Elia clearly aren’t all that bright. If they were, they would remember what it was Oberyn received the Red Viper moniker for allegedly poisoning. And then they’d remember where Aerys spent a considerable portion of each day. And then they'd stop saying Elia poisoned his wine. Anyway, I have never known how to end things in my life. Maybe one day I'll learn, but that day is not today. Let me know what you think?


End file.
